Brick by Brick
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Three months after Jenny is fired from NCIS, it takes a change of scenery and the reassurance of a certain one of the Gibbs clan to shine a little light on the Shadows. Promised tag to 'Shadow of the Doubt'. Jibbs.


_A/N: the promised tag to 'the Shadow of a Doubt'. It takes place closer to the end of the story, though some time has passed. It's just a brief glimpse into the healing process-for both Jenny and Gibbs. Jackson makes an appearance. As with 'Shadow', artistic license with canon timelines has been taken. _

* * *

><p>Gibbs had three nails in his mouth and a hammer in his hand when his phone began a muffled ring from beneath the old tool belt it had ended up beneath. He ignored it, narrowing his eyes to make sure the nail he was about to hit was lined up right. The phone kept ringing, and the sound became shrill; no longer muffled.<p>

"All that ringin' means someone needs you, Leroy," the phone, suddenly ringing right next to his ear, nudged his shoulder and Gibbs sighed, turning around. He took the cell phone from his father and spat the nails into his palm, fumbling for a moment before he got it open and to his ear.

"Yeah," he said customarily, glaring at Jackson Gibbs. "Gibbs."

He waited for an answer.

"Jethro," her voice came up slowly; resigned. "You're going to be mad."

She was the _only_ one whom he would not get angry at for calling him in Stillwater. He folded the nails into his palm and turned his back to Jackson, walking towards the tool belt. He placed the nails on the workbench that was set up in the middle of the store.

"You okay?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Yes," she answered.

"Why am I mad?" he asked, shifting the phone to his other ear. He set the hammer down, too, treading carefully.

She laughed sardonically.

"I can't," she began slowly. She took a deep breath. "I can't stay in this house," she forced out. "I thought I wanted to—I thought I could handle it but," she paused again. "I can't."

He nodded, though she couldn't see it. A twinge of guilt hit him. He shouldn't have left her, not this weekend.

"It's fine, Jen," he said seriously. "My door's unlocked. Go stay at my house."

"Jethro," she said, sounding conflicted.

"What?" he prompted tensely.

She had been distant and hostile all week. He knew the anniversary of her father's murder was difficult for her, and he had known it would be worse this year, when it hit her alongside the loss of her job and the Howard ordeal. She had shut him out, though, and he had tried to respect her need for solitude while trying to mitigate the pain.

She sighed in frustration.

"I'm trying to say that I can't be alone," she hissed. "Do you have to be so dense?"

He gave an annoyed grunt.

"You told me you wanted to be alone," he snapped quietly.

He glanced over his shoulder and Jackson quickly looked away, whistling as if he weren't trying to eavesdrop on his son's conversation.

"I do," she said tightly. "There's a difference—between not wanting to, and being unable to and I," she took a deep breath. "I'm the second one. I can't be alone. It's hard to—to lose it in front of you but," Jenny swallowed. "I need you. Or I'm going to start drinking."

Gibbs sighed heavily. He reached up and rubbed his forehead, scrunching his eyes up.

"Jen, I'm in Pennsylvania," he said.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be there for her—it was the idea of the four hour drive in the middle of the night to get to her, after a week of fending off her very aggressive, self-preserving remarks and destructive behavior. She had ordered him, and then asked him honestly, to leave her this weekend, and he had acquiesced, taking time to help his Dad repair fire damage in the store.

If she needed him, he wasn't going to abandon her—he just wished she didn't always wait until the last minute to change her stubborn mind.

"I know," she said shakily. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said vehemently. He stood up, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Jenny, will you be good until I get there?" he asked. He wasn't even bothering to keep his voice down anymore.

She made a quiet noise. He took it as a positive answer.

"I'm on my way," he assured her.

He hung up the phone with a quick snap, and marched through the gutted wreckage of part of Jackson's store to the counter. He picked up his keys.

"Leavin' pretty quick, son," Jackson said. "Everything okay?"

Gibbs nodded, pocketing his badge and wallet. He transferred the keys to his right hand.

"I'll be back, Dad," he said gruffly. He smirked. "Don't wait up."

* * *

><p>He left Stillwater, Pennsylvania a mere six hours after he'd gotten there, and the drive back to DC was boring, dark, and tense. It bugged him to walk out the door on his dad so brazenly, since they had just barely started to reconcile. He didn't know how he felt about bringing Jenny into that dynamic so soon, but he had agreed to help Jackson fix up the store after a bad electrical fire.<p>

He wasn't in a position to break a promise to either of them.

He pulled into the drive of Jenny's historic brownstone at around eleven p.m. He was unnerved by the lack of lights on, and peered through the window as his movement to get his key cued the porch light to flicker to life. Through the slim, stained glass of the old door, he could see her sitting on the very bottom step of her crimson-carpeted stairs, and he relaxed a little.

He walked in unceremoniously and shut the door loudly behind him.

"You rang?" he drawled, sliding the key back into his pocket.

She looked up at him from the foot of the stairs, her cheeks pale, and smiled weakly. Gibbs looked around, eyes narrowing to adjust to the dark. Only the foyer light was on.

"Why are you sittin' in the dark?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and stood up.

"Lights are too bright," she said with a shrug, walking over to him. She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into his shoulder. Gibbs gently reached down and tilted her head back, eyeing her sharply.

"Did you drink?" he asked, studying her pupils expertly.

Three months ago, sitting on his basement stairs, Jenny had sworn she was never touching alcohol again. It had taken him some time to accept that she was serious and, until he had, he hadn't realized just how precariously close to alcoholism Jenny had come during the Frog Fiasco.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. She smiled wryly. "There's no alcohol in the house."

He snorted.

"You worried about nothing," he drawled. "Why is the light bothering you?"

"I'm tired," she mumbled. "I can't sleep. I don't want to think about it."

Gibbs nodded. He moved his hand down to her shoulder, squeezed, and pulled her closer for a hug. He kissed her on the lips and rubbed her arm comfortingly, letting go after a brief moment.

"Come up to bed," Jenny murmured.

"Huh-uh," he denied, moving past her. "Doesn't help when you're like this, Jen," he reminded her gently. "Come on, you're packin' a bag," he said.

She turned towards him quickly, hugging herself, her tired brow furrowed.

"What?" she asked hoarsely.

"I've got to get back to Stillwater. Made a promise," Gibbs answered. He started up the stairs. "You're coming with me."

He didn't wait for her to argue or question him; he went upstairs to her bedroom and fished an old duffle bag out of the closet. He went to her drawers and packed jeans and comfortable lounge clothes and older t-shirts. He didn't pack make-up or hair product or toiletries; if she wanted those things desperately, then Stillwater had stores—but he just didn't want to see her with all that crap on her face this weekend.

He was back downstairs in ten minutes, and she was standing in the same spot looking at him like he had lost his mind.

"You just drove all the way _back_ from Pennsylvania," she said skeptically.

He nodded, shrugging. He started to usher her towards her front door.

"Wait," she said seriously, planting her feet on the floor and her palms on his chest. "Jethro, wait, you can't just whisk me off to small-town _nowhere_! I have—" she paused.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting. Sometimes, she still slipped up, and she argued that she had work to do. She didn't, though—not these days. She bit her lip, pausing. He smirked.

"C'mon," he coaxed, nudging her towards the door again. "I can whisk you wherever I want," he growled seductively. He lowered his voice soothingly. "C'mon, Jen, it'll give you a change of scenery."

She looked at him guardedly and then turned towards the door, letting him reach over her shoulder to open it. He let her slip past him into the humid summer air and she pushed her hair back, walking down the front steps.

"You're in the truck," she observed.

Rare were the times Gibbs drove his old, pretty beaten up red truck.

"I hauled some lumber up to Stillwater this morning," he answered, stopping next to her.

Jenny still looked uncertain. She turned and looked at her house dejectedly, shivering a little. He slung her duffle bag over his shoulder and waited, wanting her to take the first step towards the truck. He didn't want her to feel like she was being forced.

Jenny turned her head and tilted it slyly, looking at him through her eyelashes.

"This means I get to meet your dad," she said wickedly.

He glared at her and bent his knee, hitting her in the back of the thigh affectionately.

"Get in the damn truck."

* * *

><p>Jenny kept shifting around in the passenger seat, adjusting the seatbelt to get comfortable. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, sat up straight, slouched down, sighed, and began the process again.<p>

Glancing over at her when she blew air out through pouted lips for a fifth time, he found her staring right back at him.

"You know sometimes, I really _hate_ him," she said quietly.

He looked back at the sparsely populated interstate, letting her words hang for a minute.

"Who?" he asked dutifully.

"My father," she muttered dully, turning to stare out the front windshield.

Gibbs lifted his eyebrows, surprised. He glanced over at her again and she smiled mirthlessly, looking down at her hands.

"I know. It doesn't make any sense," she said, talking herself through it. "He was murdered, but it _feels_ like he _did_ commit suicide. Maybe because people told me that for years. It feels like," she stopped and snorted, shaking her head. "I'm not making any sense."

She fell silent.

"It hurts so much to think about him. He meant so much to me," she said hoarsely. "He was just gone, like _that_," she snapped. "It wasn't fair."

Jenny drew her legs up on the seat and curled up, leaning against the window. She propped her elbow on the door and glanced out into the inky black night, able to see stars. It seemed beautiful outside. She cracked her window open slightly, enjoying the smidgen of humid, summer air.

Gibbs wait to see if she would speak again and then swallowed, setting his jaw.

"Jen," he asked intuitively. "What triggered this?"

"Hmm?"

"What triggered it?" he repeated. He looked at her intently for a brief second, and then returned to keeping a weather eye on the road. "You didn't want me around," he prompted slowly. He already knew what must have happened. "Suddenly you do."

He could feel her looking at him reluctantly. He heard her lean her head heavily against the window, and she stared out the windshield again, pushing her thick hair behind her ears. It was long now; longer than it had been when she'd lost her job at NCIS. It was longer than he'd ever seen it.

"I fell asleep watching a documentary," she said slowly. "And then I had a nightmare."

Gibbs nodded, not surprised. It had been eerie how smoothly things had gone for a while after Jenny had been raped, and even after she'd been fired. She had been unable to remember the trauma, and the endorphins their newfound understanding of their relationship had made things easy for a few weeks.

One night, out of the blue, she'd woken him up screaming. There had been more bad days than good since then.

"Bad one?" Gibbs asked.

"They're all bad," she sighed, massaging her temples with a thumb and forefinger.

"Jen, you called me in Pennsylvania," he pointed out. "Told me to come get you," he reminded her. "How bad?"

"I wanted to _stop_ thinking about Daddy," she said hoarsely. "I turned on the documentary, and I was fine, until I thought that maybe if I went back over what happened with Howard it would take my mind off the Colonel," she stopped, shaking her head. "It felt like was awake the whole time."

Gibbs' knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. His muscles tensed and he looked over at her. She reached up and swiped her fingers under her eyes swiftly, blinking slowly.

"I was drunk, I couldn't see, there were news cameras, he was raping me, I couldn't fight back, you were just standing there, he was breathing on me," she listed things off, closing her eyes.

"You wake yourself up?" Gibbs asked tightly, cringing at the mental image her description crafted, and at how it must have felt for her.

She nodded, covertly swiping at her eyes again.

"You get sick?"

"As always," she confirmed. She let out a slow, distasteful breath and her hand fell to the seat next to her. "Did you know toothpaste can't get the taste of fear out of your mouth?" she asked in a murmur.

She shook her head.

"Why is it this bad now?" she snapped angrily, the question rushing out desperately. "I was fine two months ago." She held out her hand in frustration. "I shouldn't have trauma like this!"

She raged against what she saw as weakness, and she slumped back, curling further away from him into the car door and the window. He grit his teeth and moved his hands slightly on the steering will, steeling himself. He cleared his throat and forced his mouth open.

"That's how it works," he said in a raw voice.

She looked over at him sharply, her eyes narrow.

He nodded curtly.

"When bad things happen," he went on hoarsely. "You get over it for a week or a month," he explained. "Then, it's just _worse_. Hits hard. It sinks in. Almost kills you."

He kept his eyes trained on the road. She relaxed a little, but he didn't say anything. She knew he was talking about Shannon and Kelly; he had to be. It made sense. She had just never _really_ heard him talk about it.

She stayed quiet for a long time.

Then, she said, aggressively:

"I won't let it kill me."

Gibbs smirked a little. He slid his hand off the steering will and turned his palm up, resting it on the seat between them. She moved her hand off her thigh, brushed her fingers over his gently for a moment, and then entangled her hand with his, squeezing tightly. He found her pulse with his thumb and held it.

She sighed, but this sigh was more relaxed; like a weight lifting off of her shoulders.

"I'm so tired," she admitted hoarsely, her brow furrowing. Her eyes had dark circles, and she was pale. She needed sleep; he could tell.

"I can throw you in the bed of the truck," he drawled.

She smiled. She laughed; her eyes closed lightly, and then she opened them, fixing him with a much softer, happier green glare. She leaned forward a little, eyeing the dashboard.

"The radio in this thing work?" she asked.

He gave an affirmative grunt. She pressed the button and settled back, closing her eyes. She rested her head against the window gently, but didn't curl so far away. The music played; background noise.

"How far to Stillwater?" she asked.

"Three hours," he answered gruffly.

She nodded, her chest rising and falling peacefully. Her brow furrowed a little. He thought she was asleep, until she cleared her throat thickly and spoke up.

"Jethro," she asked, her words sleepy and slurred. "Are we listening to Johnny Cash?"

Sleep claimed her almost as soon as she finished the sentence, and she didn't catch his smirk, or his movement to turn the somber music of the Man in Black up just a little.

* * *

><p>She was awake again when he was pulling into Stillwater's lone paved road. There were all of three streetlights to brighten the drive, and Jenny squinted out the window with interest, her hair tucked messily behind her ears. It was tangled from her awkward sleeping position.<p>

She tilted her head and looked over at him.

"You really are small town," she mused, looking curiously back out the window. "This is everyone-knows-everyone's secrets kind of small town."

He snorted and decelerated, turning the truck down the dirt road that would curve around to the back of the general store. Jenny blinked, alert, and observed with interest as he pulled up next to the old shed and Jackson's even older Ford pick-up and killed the engine.

"You live above the store?" Jenny remarked. She shot him a prim look. "How quaint."

He glared at her and rolled his eyes, getting out of the truck.

"C'mon," he said, nodding his head towards the residence entrance to the store. "Don't slam your door. You'll wake 'im up," he warned.

Jenny complied and quietly pushed the door shut, picking her bag out of the space where her feet had been. Gibbs took it from her courteously and led her towards the back entrance; he took her in through the kitchen, keeping the lights off.

He knew Jackson was probably asleep and dreaded waking him up; he reached behind him and took Jenny's hand. She jumped and made a noise.

"Shh," he hushed. "Follow me."

She made a skeptical noise under her breath and gripped his fingers, wary of falling in the unfamiliar dark.

Her unease was done away with in an instant when light suddenly flooded the kitchen.

Jenny blinked. They were in a rather small area, just feet away from a staircase that disappeared to a second story. Gibbs straightened up and groaned, turning his head to glare at the older man standing in the entranceway.

"Mornin'," greeted the man who must be Gibbs' father in a cheerful voice.

"Told you not to wait up," Gibbs growled.

Jenny blinked again, still adjusting to the light.

Gibbs' father was stout, round, and had wispy white hair. He had a friendly face and bright, honest blue eyes that were like Jethro's, but didn't have that hollow, hard look to them.

"Why's that, Leroy? You want me asleep so you can sneak a girl up to your room?" the older Gibbs shook his head and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "I thought you learned that lesson when I caught you with Susie May Miller."

Jenny brought her hand up to her mouth and muffled a snicker, her eyes widening slightly. Gibbs raised his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head in annoyance, and while he stewed in embarrassment or irritation or whatever he was stewing in, his father extended his hand to Jenny.

"Jackson Gibbs," he said.

Jenny took his hand and nodded, smiling warmly.

"Jenny Shepard," she said. "I hope I haven't made a bad impression," she said lightly.

"Not at all, Miss," Jackson said, giving Gibbs a reproving look. "This one probably sweet-talked you into it."

"Dad," Gibbs snapped.

"_Sweet_-talk?" asked Jenny, wrinkling her nose. She shook her head. "I'm sad to say it's more likely that I'm just easy."

Jackson smirked, his eyes twinkling.

"Leroy, you didn't tell me your girl was so charming," he complimented.

Jenny smiled, her mood elevated considerably. She straightened her shoulders, looking at Jethro to see his reaction. He just gave Jackson a skeptical look and threw Jenny's duffle bag over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Dad," he said pointedly, starting past him towards the stairs.

"Now slow down, there's no hurry," Jackson placated. "We're all awake. I'll make some tea."

"It's three in the morning," Gibbs retorted, shooting Jackson down. "She's tired," he added, "and we've got work to do tomorrow. It can wait."

Jenny smiled a small, apologetic look at Jackson, still processing the multitude of things that had happened since she'd bitten the bullet and called Jethro to come get her. He took her arm and led her towards the stairs with him, with Jackson watching closely.

Jenny lowered her voice and raised her eyebrows, leaning over towards Jethro's ear as they walked.

"You dated a girl named Susie May?" she teased quietly.

"Dated a Mary Jo, too," came Jackson's friendly voice up the stairs.

Jenny snickered.

"Leroy, you respect that woman," Jackson warned up the stairs, as Gibbs put his hand on a door on the stairs' landing. Gibbs glared over his shoulder menacingly, shooting Jenny a threatening look when she snickered again.

She retorted with a serious, innocent look of her own.

"You heard him, _Leroy_," she simpered. "Respect me."

* * *

><p>She entered the bedroom behind Gibbs and stopped in her tracks, surprised by what she found. It was, unmistakably, his high school haven. It wasn't that Jethro had once been in high school that surprised her; it was that the room seemed to have been preserved <em>exactly<em> as he left it.

Her eyes widened a little, and she took it all in; she shut the door respectfully behind her and looked around. A subtle smirk spread over her face as she prowled around the room, her eyes alighting on different things.

She tilted her head up and laughed.

"What?" he asked warily, glancing at her with narrow eyes. He threw her duffle bag into the bed and unzipped it.

"Farrah Fawcett," she said smugly, pointing at the iconic bathing suit photo. "Raquel Welch," she continued, pointing next to the famous poster of the animal skin bikini. "Daisy Duke—_Jethro_," she laughed. "It's as if you haven't been back since high school!"

He looked at the posters silently, shrugged, and went around to bed to his closer.

"Haven't," he said gruffly, elaborating no more.

Jenny bit her lip, still looking around. She knew he had an estranged relationship with his father; it bothered her that she was intruding on this weekend. She knew that he had been disgruntled over the idea of spending time in Stillwater, but the fire in his father's store had ironically kindled a reconnection.

She swiveled around, tearing her eyes away from comic books and old records and posters of old John Wayne movies. A wicked look crossed her eye, and she smirked when he turned from the closet, a bundle in his hands. He froze at the impish look.

"What?" he asked warily.

"Ah, so you left _everything_ the same?" she teased, arching her brows. She dropped to her knees and looked under the bed.

"Jen, what are you doing?"

"Where are they?" she asked, matter-of-fact. She stood up empty-handed and darted to the closer, ducking past him.

"_What_?" he demanded shortly.

She searched through boxes and old toys, then straightened and rose on tiptoes, searching the upper shelf. She made a noise of triumph and jumped, clumsily dragging an old box marked '_homework'_.

"Aha," she said, dropping them on his old twin bed and brushing dust off the top. She casually flicked the box open and lifted the issue on top. "The _Playboys_," she announced smugly.

Gibbs gave her a disparaging look. He ignored her and walked over to her and around the bed again, unfolding the bundle in his arms. It proved itself to be a sleeping bag, and he thrust it out haphazardly on the floor.

Jenny stretched out on his bed, flicking through the provocative magazine in quite the nonchalant way. She was feeling tired again, and with that feeling, came the creeping fear of falling asleep. Her brief nap in the truck hadn't been restful; she ached to keep up banter or conversation just to stave away the bad feelings that were still writhing under her skin—feelings that had caused her to call him in the first place.

Gibbs prowled around, situating things, and handed her the pajamas he'd thrown in the bag for her. Jenny looked up from a spread of a very naughty flight attendant and gave a small smile at the gesture, sitting up. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder, tangled and frayed at the ends.

She gave a distasteful look to the thin, silky tank-and-shorts concoction he'd packed for her. She tilted her head at him.

"You have any of your clothes from high school?"

He gave her a guarded look and threw her stuff back in her duffle, nodding and pointing at a bureau. Jenny swung her feet off the bed and walked softly over to it, opening the top drawer. She snorted, pushed aside two pink sweaters, and pulled out a pair of Superman boxers and a Stillwater High t-shirt. She slipped her clothes off, his old clothes on and—feeling safe in him—opted to tease a little more before bed.

She snatched a pink sweater out of the drawer, slammed it shut, and whipped something that had caught her eye off the dresser, turning around with a mean gleam in her eye. She held the items up mockingly.

"Do these belong to _Susie May_?" she asked, pursing her lips sweetly. "Or did you like to play dress up with Raggedy Ann?"

Jenny made the classic, beloved Raggedy Ann doll she'd found abandoned on the dresser dance and crinkled her nose a little, giving Gibbs a goading look. Her smile faded, however, when she noticed the teasing didn't amuse him—he wasn't even glaring at her.

He suddenly looked pale, and hollow. He stared at the items in her hands from where he stood with her duffle bag, a muscle in his temple jumping. His jaw was set as if he were angry and it was as if she had smacked him; he was silent.

Jenny swallowed hard and lowered her hands, parting her lips a little. She breathed in a little, confused by the change, unable to find words. She looked helplessly at the doll and then the sweater—and then she realized. It was a child's sweater. She had just inadvertently thrown his daughter in his face.

She felt like she couldn't breathe.

Gibbs shook his head slowly, and he cleared his throat. He nodded his head.

"Those are Kelly's," he said roughly.

His voice was harsh, very harsh—but he didn't sound angry. Jenny lowered her hands and bit her lip, walking to the bed. She sat down across from him, laying the sweater on the comforter and holding the well-loved Raggedy Ann in her lap.

She swallowed again, staring down at the doll.

"Jethro, I—" she began hoarsely. She lifted her head and looked at him honestly. "I thought you said you hadn't been back."

He looked at her bluntly and then shrugged, dropping her duffle bag loudly onto the floor.

"Not me," he said gruffly. "Them. He's her grandfather. He wanted to see her."

Without a word, he reached out to grab the sweater. He hesitated briefly and then swept it up as if it might burn him; he folded it deftly and laid it on the bedside table.

"Forget it, Jen," he soothed roughly. "You didn't know."

She still felt sick. She felt as if she had subconsciously forced some of the pain she'd been struggling with on to him by reminding him of what he'd lost. She chewed on her lip, bowing her head, her palm cradling Raggedy Ann's head. She sat still, perched on the edge of his childhood bed, surrounded by a teenage Jethro she had never known—and suddenly she felt insecure, and alone; she felt as if she were in the presence of the man Shannon had fallen in love with…and the man who had loved Shannon. She felt like an outsider; an invader.

Gibbs laid on his back on the sleeping bag he'd thrown carelessly on the floor and rested his head on his arm, staring blankly upwards with one knee pointing to the ceiling and an arm resting on his chest.

"It's terrible," Jenny said thickly, her voice shaking, "isn't it? When you stumble across something that reminds you," she paused briefly, "and you're not prepared."

He didn't answer. He was silent, and she wondered if she had been wrong to say anything—but she did understand some of the heartache. It hit her when some senator or military official mentioned knowing her father; or it hit her when she heard herself referenced in the news, due to occasionally stories about Howard's appeal.

She tilted her neck back and looked up, her eyes burning.

"Doesn't feel good," he scoffed after a moment, surprising her with his deep tone in the quiet that had fallen.

She nodded. After a long moment, she stretched out across the bed and looked over the side, her hair dangling off the edge. She held onto his daughter's old doll for a moment, then kissed the forehead of it gently and handed it to him, folding her arms under her chin.

Gibbs took the doll, gave her a short nod, and dropped it on his chest next to his hand.

He looked unapproachable and steely; like he always had back in the old days, when they had first met and he had been a wall of the impenetrable. The sight scared her. Her eyes stung a little more. She needed him tonight, but she hesitated to tell him that again. She hadn't meant to open old wounds so violently.

"Jen," he asked seriously, breaking the silence.

"Jethro?" she responded quietly, her voice unsteady.

"Your nightmare," he said, looking up at her with an intense gaze. "You said in your nightmare that I just stood there," he reminded her. "You know I wouldn't let him hurt you, Jen, if I could've—"

"I know," she interrupted tensely, waving her hand. "It's a nightmare; I can't help it. It's scarier that way. It's my mind trying to hurt me."

"There's a reason behind it," he said bluntly, blue eyes boring into hers.

She let out a shaky breath, staring at him helplessly. She was in an unfamiliar place, stretched out in his old clothes on an unfamiliar bed. They were laying in the dim light of his high school bedroom immersed in painful memories, and he wanted to psychoanalyze her dreams.

She almost lashed out at him, but she'd done enough of that lately. She had attacked him all week, and she was tired of doing it. She didn't have the strength, and she was grateful he had dropped everything to keep his promise to be there for her.

Jenny shifted and slipped off the bed, kneeling next to him. She curled up and rested her elbow lightly on his abdomen, looking at him guardedly. She blew air out through her lips and shrugged, struggling with the words.

"It," she began. "It might—it might be because I feel so out of control since losing my job," she explained slowly, her voice raw. "I start thinking you're all I have, and I panic."

He inched his hand forward and threaded his fingers into hers, narrowing his eyes.

"Panic?" he drawled. "Damn, Jenny, didn't know I was such a bad deal."

She laughed shakily, and squeezed his hand. She shook her head.

"You know what I mean," she reminded him pointedly, her smile fading a little. "These are uncharted waters, Jethro, we've never been together this long. I," she paused, her lip trembling a little. "I get scared."

"Ah, Jen," he sighed, tilting his head back a little. He frowned somewhat. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

She nodded. She sat up a little and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his urgently. She wanted to feel the reassurance in his lips. He kissed her back, his hand sliding up her spine to her neck and holding her to him fast. She let her eyes fall closed, waiting until her chest throbbed with a painful need for oxygen to part her lips; she held her forehead against his firmly, breathing quickly.

"You have it with you?" he asked huskily.

She nodded, her hair falling into his face and brushing his eyes and mouth. Her hand pressed against her breast, where the paper he'd signed his name to three months ago was tucked into her bra, and pressed warm against her skin.

She bit her lip, sinking down against his chest, kissing him again for strength.

"I love you," she murmured tightly, the worlds tumbling through her lips though she didn't want them to. She didn't like to say it; it released tension into the air—but sometimes, sometimes she needed to.

He stroked the back of her neck gently, his forehead rubbing hers as he nodded.

"I'm here, Jen," he said gruffly.

She was used to it now. It was what he always said in return, now. It was better than his stupid, teasing response in so long ago in Paris. The unspeakable 'That'll be the day'.

"I don't want to go to sleep," she muttered seriously, her voice cracking.

She was an expert at keeping back tears these days, and she successfully refrained from crying now—but she pulled him into a more heated kiss, a seductive kiss, and she let him know what she wanted without speaking.

His hand moved back down her spine, to the waist of his boxers that she wore, and he stopped, hesitating. His breathing elevated and matching hers a little, he pulled back, giving her a reluctant look and shaking his head.

"No," he said under his breath.

She drew back some.

"Bed," she suggested, nodding at his twin bed.

"No," he said again. "It creaks. He'll hear."

"Who?" she asked, her brow furrowing suddenly. He glared at her. She straightened a little. "Your father?" her voice rose.

Gibbs shushed her.

"He told me not to," Gibbs snapped at her, his eyes boring into hers pointedly. "You heard him."

"You're afraid your _father_ is going to catch us?" Jenny hissed. "You're scared of—Jethro, you're pushin' _fifty_!"

He gave her a stony, unmovable glare. She smiled a little, exasperated. It was suddenly a mood elevator to discover Gibbs had an ingrained reluctance to make love to her when his father had warned him her _honor_ should be respected.

Gibbs ran his hand up her spine firmly, his skin warm against the old, thinning t-shirt. She bit her lip and he tugged her down next to him, rolling towards her. He tangled his legs up in hers, pulling her close.

He reached between them and picked up Raggedy Anne, moving slowly to put her out of the way. Jenny reached out gently and stopped him, pushing the old toy towards his chest. She didn't say anything, but she could sense that it might assuage some of the pain to keep the doll close. He looked at her, unreadable, and then let Raggedy Anne rest against his chest again.

"If we can't have sex," she drawled in a sultry tone, "we can look at the _Playboys_."

Gibbs smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He pushed her hair away from her face and pressed his palm to her cheek, giving her a look.

"You're tired, Jen," he reminded her.

She sighed, and looked at her, her expression melting into rawness again. She swallowed and shook her head.

"Nightmares," she protested.

"You won't have them," he asserted firmly.

She held his gaze for a moment, drawn in by his certainty. Anxiety seized her for a moment, but then she relaxed—she relaxed, and lowered her head and rested her mouth against his shoulder, closing her eyes and breathing him in. He'd driven four hours to get her when she needed him, and he'd done so much more than that since she'd been fired and had been struggling.

He had stayed accessible even when Shannon and Kelly had been brought into the conversation. He never did that. He had never, ever done that.

Maybe it wasn't so hard to believe that here, on his old bedroom floor, with the old Raggedy Ann doll thrown against his chest, he was capable of chasing away a few night terrors.

* * *

><p>Jenny woke up early—well, she assumed it was early; she couldn't find a clock, nor could she locate her cell phone. She slipped stealthily out of Jethro's grasp and dressed, tiptoeing downstairs. The smell of coffee coaxed her into the kitchen she and Gibbs had tried to sneak through last night, but the soft sunlight streaming in and the friendly smile Jackson gave her when she peeked in made her stay.<p>

His warm 'good-morning', and the welcoming, very black, very good cup of coffee he offered were the reasons she was enjoying a casual conversation with Gibbs' father at an old, worn wooden table.

Jackson sat down with her, his blue eyes permanently crinkled good-naturedly, and silently let her wake up and enjoy her coffee. She held herself guardedly at first, feeling out the atmosphere; Jethro had only packed her t-shirts and weathered jeans, and she was feeling insecure—he hadn't even grabbed make-up, and she could kill him for it. She didn't like sitting in the presence of a relative stranger in the same sort of state she'd lounge around with Jethro in on a lazy Sunday.

"I never met the other ones, you know," Jackson broke the silence mildly, sipping his own coffee.

Jenny tilted her head slightly, lifting her eyebrows.

"The 'other ones'?" she repeated, amused.

"The wives," Jackson whispered conspiratorially. "'Course I met Shannon. Never met the replacements," he sighed, a disapproving look crossing his eyes. "I raised that boy to value marriage more than that."

Jenny bit her lip, taking a thoughtful sip.

She lowered her mug slowly.

"Mr. Gibbs," she began.

"Jackson," he corrected firmly.

"Jackson," she said nicely. "Jethro does value marriage."

Jackson snorted.

"And I am not a replacement," Jenny said, giving him a snarky look.

He smirked at her wryly.

"I reckon you're not," he agreed. "Or else he would've married you," Jackson quipped.

Jenny laughed, taking another good sip of her coffee. She leaned forward, crossing her legs and relaxing a little. Her hair fell over her shoulder and she tossed her head, shaking it back a little. She let out a tense breath, her shoulders slumping.

"I apologize for crashing your weekend," she said sincerely, smiling.

Jackson waved his hand.

"Leroy has been blowin' me off for women since he was fourteen," he said breezily. "I have to admit, though," Jackson said seriously, eyeing her intently. "I think there's something about you."

Jenny looked at him, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. She shrugged, looking down at her mug and playing with the handle. She felt comfortable with Jackson. She lifted the mug and took a sip again, looking around the whole store, at the damage the electrical fire had caused.

She thought of Jethro growing up here.

"When is the last time you and Jethro saw each other?" Jenny asked.

Jackson was silent a moment.

"The funeral," he answered solemnly.

"Ah," Jenny said softly, nodding her head. After a moment, she spoke again. "He misses them so much."

"I know it," said Jackson fiercely. "Problem is, my son never understood that other people were hurtin', too. I really loved that little girl."

Jenny smiled sadly. She took a long sip of her coffee, her eyes meeting Jackson's with understanding. He tilted his head and took a sip of his own drink, wrinkling his forehead thoughtfully.

"I get the idea you know somethin' about loss," he said gruffly. He held his mug towards her briefly as in a toast. "I think that's what he needs. Someone who understands, without trying to empathize. Honey, I hope he treats you right."

"Ah, jeez, Dad," came Jethro's annoyed voice.

Jenny turned, a smile lighting up her face. Gibbs glared at them both as he stepped into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a checkered work shirt. He trudged over to the coffee pot. She wasn't sure what part of the conversation he had caught, but she was sure he wasn't aware that his hair was sticking straight out in the back. She giggled, and turned back to Jackson, a feeling of contentment rushing through her.

She bit her lip, nodding after a moment.

"He does," she said simply. She lowered her voice and hissed: "I bullied him into it."

Jackson laughed heartily.

Gibbs walked over, holding a coffee cup suspiciously. He rested his free hand casually on Jenny's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, his hand pulling inadvertently at strands of her long hair.

"Hungry, Jen?" he asked.

She glanced up and nodded, her lips parted slightly. She felt the sudden urge to kiss him—to thrust her arms around his neck and thank him for the support—for dragging her out here. He was right. This change of scenery was perfect. She hadn't thought of Howard or her father in hours and hours.

"Bacon's in the crisper," Jackson said, his eyes on Jenny. "I got pancake mix, too," he added. "I'll show you the pans."

Jenny stared at Gibbs' father in shock for a moment. She glanced between the two Gibbses and then laughed awkwardly.

"Oh, uh—_I_ don't cook," she said, the very thought absurd to her.

The old fashioned values that Jackson Gibbs seemed to subconsciously hold dear and practice made him endearing to her. She wanted to curl up near a fire and listen to him talk about the old days…somewhat like her father used to.

Jackson blinked at her in shock.

"You don't?" he asked.

Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"What do you want?" he asked.

She wiggled her eyebrows.

"Surprise me," she said. "Leroy," she added wickedly.

He pinched her playfully and returned to the other side of the counter, pretending to scowl grumpily. He turned on the oven and she heard things start to sizzle. Jackson laughed shortly and shook his head.

"I'm surprised," he admitted. "Every girl 'round here cooks," he said seriously.

Jenny shrugged good-naturedly.

"Maybe _that's_ why I'm not his fifth wife," she said smugly.

Jackson stood up, finishing up his coffee. He gestured to Gibbs' back with his mug.

"That, and last time I checked he ain't some fat English king," he growled reprovingly.

Gibbs shot a glare over his shoulder. Jenny snickered.

"You'll have to tell me more about this _Susie May_, Jackson," she said lightly, wrinkling her nose primly.

Jackson winked at her as he turned leave, headed towards the front of the store.

"Only if you tell me what the hell you see in Leroy," he retorted.

"Dad," growled Gibbs. "Leave her alone."

Jackson chuckled.

"Gettin' the milk and paper," he said, his voice fading. A moment later, his voice could be heard leaving the front. Jenny stood and went around the counter to watch Jethro fry the bacon, marveling at how well the kitchen just seamlessly morphed into the back aisles of the general store. She put her hands on his hips and kissed his shoulder.

"You packed my grunge clothes," she accused in a murmur, pressing close to him.

"I know you can't cook," he answered gruffly. "Also know you've got a hell of a way with power tools."

"I get to help rebuild?" Jenny asked.

"Best therapy there is," he answered bluntly. She thought of the boat. He looked down at her bare feet and snorted. "And ya can't do it in heels," he added.

She punched his shoulder and snatched a piece of bacon from the pan, turning around and retreating across the kitchen to her cooling coffee. He didn't say anything to her for a minute; she heard him moving around with food, and her back was too him as she surveyed the mail on the counter and munched on the crunchy bacon.

"You sleep okay?" he ventured neutrally.

She nodded.

"Yeah," she said quietly, giving voice to the answer. She fell silent again and then turned around, watching his arm moved as he cooked pancakes. The muscles in his back flexed. She knew he felt her gaze, and she let him feel it, slipping her hands into her back pocket. Her fingers brushed against that folded, aging piece of paper with his name signed to it.

"I'm going to take that interview at American University," she said, breathing in deeply. She bit her lip, and steeled herself. "And I'm going to see the therapist Ducky recommended."

She had resisted the interview. She had raged at the idea of a therapist. Things had just been hard lately, and for a while, she had been in a place where Jethro simply couldn't help her—some place, she felt, that he vaguely knew; the place he'd been when he first lost Shannon and Kelly.

She felt good this morning. She felt good here. She felt confident and safe again, and she liked it. She was remembering that there didn't have to be so much darkness and fear, whether it was due to her father's premature death or the rape. She could admit that; and she could take the steps to move forward.

Gibbs paused and looked at her over his shoulder, studying her intensely for a moment.

"Good," he said firmly, nodding once.

He turned back to cooking and she smiled, crossing her arms and bowing her head. She heard Jackson come back in through the front of the store.

"Thank you for coming to get me, Jethro," Jenny said sincerely.

"Anytime, Jen," he answered, gruff and fiercely sincere.

Jenny bit her lip, and turned around to smile at Jackson. She leaned forward on the counter; he set down a glass decanter of milk and a rolled up paper and she laughed in delight, touching the cold, fresh bottle.

"You have milk delivered every morning?" she asked, eyes twinkling.

"Fresh from the cow," Jackson agreed, smirking. He unrolled the paper and handed it to her. "Not much city news," he warned her, his blue eyes twinkling. He stood across from her.

Jenny spread her hands over the paper and tilted her head, her eyes following Jackson's as he looked towards the front of the store. The fire damage could be seen everywhere. Things were scorched, burned, broken, dusty—workbenches and tools were everywhere; only when the store turned into the kitchen did the fire stop.

Jackson sighed nostalgically.

"It's gonna take all damn day," he said, shrugging. "Ah, well."

Jenny licked her lips and parted her lips.

"How can you do it?" she asked gently, shaking her head a little. "Rebuild all of this?"

It seemed like such a daunting task. It seemed difficult and tedious and she didn't see why he didn't just collect the insurance and move on.

Jackson looked at her silently for a moment and then he shrugged, a determined look on his face.

"I have to," he said simply. "People 'round here trust my store. How do I do it? Brick by brick, missy," he said firmly. "It's hard and it's dirty and I cuss a lot, but it's worth it when it's fixed. Stronger, too," he said. "You know what I mean?"

Jenny looked at him intently.

His words burrowed into her brain; they meant something else to her. Maybe he meant for them to. Whether it was buildings or lives or dreams, abandonment wasn't the answer; abandonment didn't solve problems; rebuilding did. That was what Jethro's boats mean to him, wasn't it?

She smiled slowly, blinking. Her eyes hurt from holding his gaze, letting him communicate with her nonverbally.

"I know what you mean," she agreed quietly.

Jackson nodded sharply.

"Thought so," he asserted. "It's a good metaphor, Jenny," he said wryly, giving her a knowing look. "Applies to people, too. I don't know what burned down in your world, but I reckon Leroy's helpin' you with your bricks," Jackson said matter-of-factly.

He looked over Jenny's shoulder, lost in thought for a moment. The sound of sizzling breakfast was the only sound, and then Jackson lowered his voice, leaning forward, giving her a meaningful look.

"And you're helpin' him with his," he said seriously. "'Cause he ain't got that beaten, hollow look to him anymore."

Jenny bit her lip.

A spatula came smacking down in between them and Jethro pointed it menacingly at Gibbs.

"Dad," he growled warningly. "Quit with the gossip," he snapped, snaking an arm around Jenny's waist. He pulled her tight into his waist and gave Jackson a good, firm glare, his fingers pressing into the pocket Jenny had her note in.

She tilted her head back and laughed, her hair cascading down her back freely.

Jackson smirked.

"Breakfast," he said sternly. He picked up a hammer that had been abandoned. "Then, we work."

Jenny grinned, biting her lower lip. She nodded. Jackson turned and disappeared behind them, helping himself to food. Jethro pressed a subtle, protective kiss to her temple and Jenny glanced up at him through her lashes, determined.

Three months ago, everything she had built—personal and professional—had collapsed around her, shrouded in shadow. She never would have imagined that in a general store in Stillwater, Pennsylvania, she'd see the sun shining on the scattered pieces—and end up feeling like she could build everything, brick by brick, from the ground.

* * *

><p><em>'The dust has finally settled down; the sun is shining on these pieces that are scattered all around...brick by brick, we can build it from the floor. If we hold onto each other, we'll be better than before.' -Brick by Brick; Train (Credit goes to this band for lyrical use and fic title)<em>

_I'm on my way back home to Tennessee for Christmas today. :)_

_-Alexandra_


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